I don’t think I had any feeling about this as I turned away from that common bustle of the railway which made my private preoccupations feel so strangely out of date.  There had been a distinct satisfaction in my mind before, that his scepticism had been so entirely defeated.  But the more serious part of the matter pressed upon me now.  I went straight from the railway to the manse, which stood on a little plateau on the side of the river opposite to the woods of Brentwood.  The minister was one of a class which is not so common in Scotland as it used to be.  He was a man of good family, well educated in the Scotch way, strong in philosophy, not so strong in Greek, strongest of all in experience,—­a man who had “come across,” in the course of his life, most people of note that had ever been in Scotland, and who was said to be very sound in doctrine, without infringing the toleration with which old men, who are good men, are generally endowed.  He was old-fashioned; perhaps he did not think so much about the troublous problems of theology as many of the young men, nor ask himself any hard questions about the Confession of Faith; but he understood human nature, which is perhaps better.  He received me with a cordial welcome.

“Come away, Colonel Mortimer,” he said; “I’m all the more glad to see you, that I feel it’s a good sign for the boy.  He’s doing well?—­God be praised,—­and the Lord bless him and keep him.  He has many a poor body’s prayers, and that can do nobody harm.”

“He will need them all, Dr. Moncrieff,” I said, “and your counsel too.”  And I told him the story,—­more than I had told Simson.  The old clergyman listened to me with many suppressed exclamations, and at the end the water stood in his eyes.

“That’s just beautiful,” he said.  “I do not mind to have heard anything like it; it’s as fine as Burns when he wished deliverance to one—­that is prayed for in no kirk.  Ay, ay! so he would have you console the poor lost spirit?  God bless the boy!  There’s something more than common in that, Colonel Mortimer.  And also the faith of him in his father!—­I would like to put that into a sermon.”  Then the old gentleman gave me an alarmed look, and said, “No, no; I was not meaning a sermon; but I must write it down for the ‘Children’s Record.’” I saw the thought that passed through his mind.  Either he thought, or he feared I would think, of a funeral sermon.  You may believe this did not make me more cheerful.

I can scarcely say that Dr. Moncrieff gave me any advice.  How could any one advise on such a subject?  But he said, “I think I’ll come too.  I’m an old man; I’m less liable to be frightened than those that are further off the world unseen.  It behooves me to think of my own journey there.  I’ve no cut-and-dry beliefs on the subject.  I’ll come too; and maybe at the moment the Lord will put into our heads what to do.”